(written drunk)
I rather turn into a bouquet of flowers then a basket of roses...
If that means anything to you then do what ever you will do.
Smiley.
Playing off of Shakespeare seems to be the case...
I don't know you.
You don't know me.
"I" Which I often said in life.
I’m in awe that I can not write fast enough for me to ask a question within myself, but on my thoughts they will be.
I'm just a remembrance of me that I'm trying to describe at a later time, but isn't that how it feels all the time?
Living in a moment just so later we can watch that moment unwind.
I wonder, when will time look me up?
Is it just inside of a thought--just within this dream; my own mind?
Reality plays coy when it must and a wild current when it wills itself to be.
But still this is real.
Looking above the fences of offences to try to see the luscious garden on the other side; the mind that gets filtered through the soul so as to put circumstances to the side and say what "I" really mean.
I'm me and I know what I mean and as I write me to know me I become me to explain it to me, and of me, to get to the meaning of what it truly means to be an I.
Does it ever feel like, to you, that you’re just a living memory?
